


if wishes were kisses

by Shachaai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Breakfast and berries sacrificed in the name of bickering, Christmas, Idiot Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28461729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: Be careful where you hang your mistletoe.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	if wishes were kisses

**Author's Note:**

> This was an old, old WIP I recently found in my notes, so I decided to finish it off and post it this year. Wherever you are, I hope you’ve had a happy holidays, and may the New Year be kinder to us all.

England can be a gorgeous creature after he has been well-fucked. The long, lean, lazy cat-arch of his spine rises from the rumpled sheets of France’s bed as he wakes and stretches all over, wrists crossed on the pillow above his head and eyelashes fluttering like some fairytale of submission. Welts and bruises from the night before, marks made by nails and kisses and teeth, score him from his nape, drawn around his neck, over his shoulders, and from his buttocks around the meat of his thighs: a Christmas garland blooming red and purple over the snowy background of his skin where the sheets have slipped down.

The pretty little lie of it all draws France back from the doorway to the bed, the breakfast tray in his hands deposited on the side-table and his fingers already tracing the marks the pillows have left on England’s cheek.

“Strange whiskers, these.”

England, still low-lashed, slants sleepy eyes at him, very wry for the hour. _“Meow._ ” And then, roughly, when France’s finger traces over the bitten bow of his lips: “Merry Christmas.”

“ _Joyeux Noël,_ ” France returns, taking back his fingertips before England can draw them between his teeth. “Come, sit up, _paresseux_ ; I ‘ave brought breakfast.”

Delicious-smelling breakfast too: sturdy slices of quiche lorraine, portions of nut roll, clementine muffins, glasses of orange juice, and a fat teapot full of strong black tea.

England pushes himself up to his elbows on the bed, squinting through his fringe at the tray France brings closer to him. “That looks disturbingly non-alcoholic for a Christmas breakfast.”

“You may begin your day-drinking after you are capable of getting up and fetching a bottle yourself,” France sniffs, pouring the tea whilst his bedpartner puts himself to rights enough so that he can sit cross-legged beside France without putting a knee in their breakfast, rumpled bedsheet pulled a little over his lower half.

(The move is less to preserve what little modesty England has left after so many years, and more to avoid the particularly itchy kind of discomfort that is crumbs near one’s crotch. This is why France is already wearing his dressing gown.)

“How uncharitable.” England’s lips dare to twitch as he reaches for a fork, a forewarning for something truly dreadful: “Where’s your Christmas spirit?”

France pulls the tray away from him. “You may ‘ave bad puns _or_ breakfast.”

“Bah humbug.”

France keeps the tray precisely where it is, just a little too far away from England to be comfortable reaching.

 _“Fine,_ ” says England, folding with a sigh. “Give me the food before you start complaining it’s gone cold.”

“And all my hard work preparing it wasted.”

“And all your hard work preparing it wasted,” England dutifully recites, waving his fork to and fro like he is conducting their beat. Hellion. “Give.”

France gives - because he is the very _spirit_ of charity, England and all his dry Dickensian allusions go hang -, pushing back the tray and nudging up against England’s side on the mattress.

Their shared night before, seasonal goodwill and the promise of food have England nudging him just as companionably back, arms pressing and England’s bare knee laid gentle into the brush of France’s thigh.

France waits, however, for England to have a mouth full of quiche before he reaches out to grasp England’s chin firmly between forefinger and thumb, turning that familiar face back to him and brushing their lips together, more soft breath than anything else.

It still gets him England almost choking under his hand on the pastry.

“Mistletoe,” France explains with a smug nod upwards to the spray he had deliberately pinned to the canopy above his mattress - once England has finished his coughing fit with a swallow of tea and given France his best _what the fuck was_ that _(in the middle of_ food!) _for?!_ expression, of course. “A mistletoe kiss is the tradition for good luck, is it not?”

England gives him such a filthy _look_ at that France decides he requires no other gift from England that year: France will _treasure_ that look of perfect, utter English disgust; truly, he will. It usually takes much more effort to acquire it.

“You call asphyxiating me on your cooking _good luck?_ ”

“For _you_ , maybe not. For the rest of us…”

England scowls at him, and shoves the tray rather aggressively onto France’s lap. France can do little more than clutch it to steady it before all their breakfast slosh-tumbles to the floor - quite missing for a moment England abandoning the bedsheets to stand, unabashedly naked, on the mattress and snatch down the sprig of mistletoe with a vengeance the poor little plant hardly deserves.

 _“Angleterre!”_ France scolds, scandalised. The _food!_ The _mistletoe!_ France’s _mattress!_

The very likely occurrence of France accidentally taking an angry penis to his face - and not in the _interesting_ kind of way - because of the way the mattress wobbles!

England only huffs from above France, and folds himself gracelessly down into a seat again, the whole bed groaning with the force of his semi-controlled fall. Plates and cutlery rattle. Bedsprings squeak loudly in complaint.

 _“Angleterre,_ ” France says again in warning, his eyes narrowing. “If I must hit you with this tray, I _will_ blame you for it.”

“Oh, settle down,” England gripes at him, his hands busy with his - stolen! - spray of mistletoe.

 _“You_ settle down,” France snipes ineffectually back. “Look at what you have done to my decorating! Our _breakfast!_ ”

“It’s fine,” England says, casting a brief and seemingly rather disinterested eye at the tray of food France had _slaved_ over for them to share, had _saved_ from England’s carelessness with his own steady hands. “We can eat in a moment.”

Not if France tips the tray over England’s head first.

Something of France’s violent thoughts must show in his expression because England actually pauses at that, giving him a rather reproachful look as though any of this is _France’s_ fault. “ _You’re_ the one who brought tradition into the bedroom.”

“I hardly see why _that_ made it so necessary for you to endanger our breakfast and immediately rip down my poor mistletoe,” France begins - only for enlightenment to dawn when England holds out his hand to him, a lone, freshly-plucked mistletoe berry rolling around in the cup of his palm. “...I forgot you had that dismal tradition.”

In England, those caught together under the mistletoe must kiss - but only so long as the mistletoe still bears berries. One berry must be plucked for each kiss, and when the spray is bare…

“Suddenly your cunning plan doesn’t seem so cunning, does it?” England says with an _insufferable_ smirk.

France frowns at him. “You would really deprive me of kisses at Christmas?” Just _why_ had he invited this awful creature into his bed again, let alone over Christmas?

“Should’ve picked a spray with more berries,” says England, _still_ smirking, and swipes a clementine muffin from the muffin to take one large smug bite out of.

France frowns at him all the harder, and drops the - heavy - tray with great and pointed deliberation on England’s exposed crotch.

The mess of tea, orange juice and baked goods France has to clean up fro the bedsheets later is worth the _yowl_ of indignant pain that precedes it - and the rather stupid, angry Christmas morning sex he and England have in the ruins of bedlinen and breakfast on the floor once they have grappled each other off the bed.


End file.
